


In times of peace.

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rule of Rhaegar Targaryen, First of his name, sits easier with some than with others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Homeless Hostage

**Author's Note:**

> I'm limiting myself to a handful of POVs on this one, okay - no big unwieldy plot for once, just single-POV chapters to hopefully give a decent view of Westeros had Rhaegar won. 
> 
> I say a handful. I mean sixteen. Ssh.
> 
> I don't know how regularly this will be updated, and for that I apologise, but hopefully you'll enjoy it when it is.

> _To injure an opponent is to injure yourself. To control aggression without inflicting injury is the Art of Peace._
> 
>                              - Morihei Ueshiba
> 
>  

* * *

 

Sometimes, Robb was jealous of his brothers and sisters. It was all well and good, growing up at court, but court, King’s Landing, they would never be  _home_. The brothers and sisters he had never met, Winterfell was their home in deed as well as name, and sometimes he positively burned with jealousy of them.

He was a hostage, regardless of how the King dressed it up - a hostage to his father’s good behaviour, a hostage against future rebellion. He was not the only one, of course, but he was the only one who had never seen the home against the peace of which he was a guarantee. The King could not allow his most valuable hostage to return home, after all. It would rather have defeated the purpose of his being in the capital.

He hated to think of his brother - Brandon, for their uncle, although he signed his letters as Bran - being raised as their father’s true heir. Everyone spoke of how strange the North was, how different to the south. Would the Northmen ever accept a lord born and raised in the south, with a southron lady? Robb’s own mother was from the south, he knew, but there was a great difference between a Tully of Riverrun and a Targaryen princess.

Despite having grown up so close to her, Robb hardly knew the girl to whom he had been betrothed since her birth - Daenerys had never given any impression that she wanted anything to do with him, despite his best efforts, and had even been known to outright avoid or ignore him if the mood took her. She was very close to the younger of her two brothers, after all, and Viserys took talk and memories of traitors past and present very seriously indeed.


	2. The King's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Connington had hoped never to wed, but he supposed that at least he had been married off to a woman with as little interest in him as he had in her beyond getting her with child.

Jon Connington had hoped never to wed, but he supposed that at least he had been married off to a woman with as little interest in him as he had in her beyond getting her with child.

He had come to know his strange, sharp-edged wife and all her perversions over their years together - seventeen years, soon, and he felt every single one of them, in the aches in his hands and the grey in his hair and the lines around Cersei Lannister's mouth and eyes (always Lannister, never Connington, for all he'd cloaked her in red-and-white and made her Lady of Storm's End, the wife of the King's Hand, second only to Queen Elia in all the realm).

Well, that last may not have been true - the Princesses, Rhaenys and Daenerys both, and the Queen Dowager were both held visibly high in the King's esteem, mayhaps higher than the Queen, who had largely retired to the rebuilt palace at Summerhall with, strangely enough, the bastard prince and the Queen Dowager. The Queen and Queen Dowager both had born no ill will against the boy when the King, yet uncrowned but victorious and fatherless, had ridden into King's Landing with his new son ( _"I prayed for a daughter, Jon, a Visenya, but the gods denied me even that"_ ) in the crook of his arm. They had reserved all their distaste, their ire, their  _disgust,_ for the King himself.

Cersei Lannister had been Jon's prize - Rhaegar had recalled him the moment word of Aerys' death on Jaime Lannister's sword had reached him, and Jon had managed to negotiate some sort of peace among the warring factions. None had been willing to bend to Rhaegar's unrealistic demands, particularly not the Starks or the Martells or (of course) the Lannisters, and so Jon had had to talk reason into his King, the man in whom he had previously been incapable of seeing fault but who, once the truth of it all had come to light, had been sullied irreperably by the madness of his House, and beg reason of those his King had wronged.

The King had wronged a great many people, during the short time from Harrenhall to his coronation.

Queen Elia had proved the balm needed to sooth the Dornish, of course, just as she had been intended, but nothing had appeased the Starks, especially not when Rhaegar ordered them to give up their son before his father had even set eyes on the boy - even Ned Stark had not deserved such a thing, Jon was doubly assured of that now that he had his own children and could imagine it for himself - and sent a force to Riverrun to prevent Lady Stark from fleeing with Robb.

Jon had been with that force. He had watched in horror as Barristan Selmy, looking ill but not even considering that he ought do anything but honour his vow to obey his King, had torn the screaming infant from his weeping mother's arms.

Still, nothing had appeased the Starks, not truly, and Jon could find no way to remain angry with them because of that. Their anger was an affront to the King's mercy, mercy shown because of the twisted approximation of love he had borne for Lyanna Stark, but it was a  _justified_ affront, and the whole of the realm knew that. They could not forget it, not when the King had married his concubine off to the Kingslayer in a mad bid to settle the pain caused to House Stark, a mockery of a suitable match for the newly-freed heir to Casterly Rock and the only daughter (only sister, by then) of the Lord of Winterfell. 

Jon had never wanted to believe it, and indeed still did not, but even he had to admit that much of what the King had done during his last months as Crown Prince and first months as King rang loud and clear of madness.

 

* * *

 

Jon looked to Rhaegar, sitting at the head of the table, and wondered what this was about.

"Aegon has informed me of his intention of supporting his brother for the Kingsguard," the King said quietly, and Jon winced - the Princes, since they had grown old enough to form their own opinions, had quietly allied themselves against the King in every way possible, short of open treason and war. Jon suspected the Queen Dowager's hand in that, she who had hoped more fiercely than any for her eldest son and who had been let down so severely, and found, as usual, he could not blame a single member of the royal family for their resentment of the King.

"Aerion is seven-and-ten, and a talented swordsman, Your Grace," Jon said. "He is more loyal to Prince Aegon than any other man would ever be. He is the perfect choice, sire. He would not be the first Prince to wear a white cloak."

"And what of the Tyrells?" Rhaegar asked pointedly, twisting around a silver-and-beech puzzle in his hands. "If Aerion joins the ranks of the Kingsguard, his betrothal with the Lady Margaery must be broken. How is that a reward for their loyalty during the Rebellion?"

"Princess Rhaenys is already wed to Ser Willas, my lord, and has borne him two healthy children," Jon pointed out. "The Tyrells have been well rewarded for their loyalty. Lord Tyrell sits on your small council, after all, and his goodbrother is Admiral of the royal fleet. They will not object if Aerion is thus honoured, Your Grace. It would not make sense for them to do so, not when there have been offers for Lady Margaery's hand despite her long-standing betrothal to the Prince."

Jon watched Rhaegar closely for signs of his rare and terrible anger, and was relieved that there were none.

"My children have more important concerns than earning honours and bearing heirs for other Houses," Rhaegar said, so softly that Jon almost missed it - such was the way, when thoughts of his beloved prophecies consumed the King. "We will discuss this later, Jon, in more detail - for now, send to Summerhall, and to Dragonstone and Highgarden. I would have all my family at court."

 

* * *

 

Prince Viserys arrived with his wife and sister and entourage long before Prince Aerion, the Queen and Queen Dowager, and their escorts did, much to the King's obvious annoyance. 

Princess Asha - once Lady Asha of House Greyjoy, since wed to Prince Viserys in order to tie her father to the crown and rule out the possibility of further rebellion on his part - was quite possibly the only person the King misliked more than he did Oberyn Martell, which only made how unexpectedly well she and her husband got along all the funnier.

Jon was sent to the dock to greet them, the King being too busy with some work or other of grave importance to meet his own siblings and his wild nephews.

"Your Highness," Jon hailed the Prince, bowing low. "Welcome back to the city."

"Well met, Lord Connington," the Prince returned in his habitual drawl, a casual arm slung around Princess Asha's shoulders, Princess Daenerys holding his other hand. "We are at our brother's disposal, of course, and could hardly refuse his invitation - is the Queen here? Our niece and nephews? Our mother?"

"Prince Aegon is in residence, Your Highness," Jon assured him, leading them all towards the waiting carriage. "Prince Aerion, Queen Elia and the Queen Dowager are all on their way from Summerhall even as we speak, and Princess Rhaenys and her children the same from Highgarden."

"And your daughter, my lord?" Princess Daenerys asked, smiling at him as he handed her up into the carriage. "Is the Lady Cerenna present? She will, after all, soon be kin to us."

Jon was less enthused at the thought of his daughter marrying into House Targaryen than he once might have been - Cersei loved that Cerenna would be Queen, of course, but Jon feared her proximity to the madness that ran so strong in the royal line. He only hoped that Prince Aegon being half-Martell would be enough to keep him sane.

"She is due tomorrow, or the day after," he admitted. "My lady wife and my son, as well, they will accompany her."

They passed the short journey to the Red Keep in companionable silence - Prince Viserys was charming, but quiet, Princess Daenerys quiet and almost shy by nature, and Princess Asha was clearly tired, likely because of her being heavy with child - and Jon was glad that the Queen Dowager had taken such an active role in her younger children's lives. Aerys had prevented her from doing so with Rhaegar, and Jon feared that it showed in the most terrible of ways.

 

* * *

 

Jon stood with Brynden Tully and watched his son fight the Blackfish's nephew, one as red-haired as the other.

"Edmure is just as lax with minding his left as ever he was," Ser Brynden grumbled. "He has been lazy about training these past months - but then, he has become lazy about everything, I think."

"He has still made no effort to seek a bride?" Jon asked, surprised. Ser Edmure - Lord Tully, he corrected himself, for though Edmure Tully had never made true claim to the title while at court he had been Lord of Riverrun for some years now - had never shown anything but a healthy interest in the young women his own age about court, and Jon could not understand why he was so reluctant to choose one as his wife.

"None that I am aware of, my Lord Hand," Ser Brynden confirmed, looking annoyed. "Although overtures have been made from a number of his bannermen, offering maiden daughters who are reportedly the most comely young women in all the world."

"I imagine Lord Frey has offered a great many of his kinswomen for your nephew's... inspection?"

"All he has of a suitable age," Ser Bryden agreed. "I think Edmure mentioned something about finding them all  _boring."_

"He will learn," Jon said. He had thought Cersei  _boring_ until he had found one of her letters to her brother, unsealed on her vanity, when he was looking for a toy of Cerenna's. He had confronted her, and he still had the scars under his beard from her nails clawing his face in her fury.

They had gotten along better after that, somehow.

"He will learn," Jon said again. "I will look into matters on his behalf, if you so wish, Ser Brynden."

 

* * *

 

Jon stumbled back when Cerenna threw herself into his arms, but he recovered quickly enough to spin her about before Cersei could step down from the wheelhouse. He set her down just in time for her to accept Armond's embrace, laughing when Armond swung her higher than Jon could have managed

Joanna, still hardly more than a babe, clung shyly to Cersei's hand, but she smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek when he lifted her into his arms. 

Jon had his suspicions about Joanna - she was the only one of their children to look entirely like Cersei - but he firmly set them aside when she locked her little arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Are you looking forward to spending time with Prince Aegon, my sweetling?" he asked Cerenna as she tucked her hand through his elbow, taking Cersei's place - not that either he or Cersei particularly minded, for she was as much easier in Armond's company as he was in Cerenna's. "He seems to have found your letters most amusing lately," he teased.

" _Papa,_ " she scolded. "I am certain that Prince Aegon did not tell  _you_ that he enjoyed my letters, and that means that you were snooping, Papa, which you have opined more than once to be a most terrible wrong."

The click of boots on the stairs drew their gazes, and Jon couldn't help but smile at how excited Prince Aegon looked - he was trailed, as always, by the eldest of his nephews, little Daeron, but his focus was entirely on Cerenna.

Jon was glad that his daughter had Cersei's face, for all that she had his hair and eyes. She was just as beautiful as Aegon, and just as clever, too, and they liked one another very much, that was obvious just from how enthusiastically they greeted one another.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was, as expected, a nightmare on the first night when Rhaegar deigned to eat with his brother.

Jon sat between them, praying that it would be enough, but of course it was not, and for once, it was not entirely caused by the King.

Cersei was behaving immaculately, of course, as were the girls and Armond - Cerenna had spent the entire time deep in conversation with Prince Aegon, in fact - and Princess Asha chatted and laughed with her sons and Lord Edmure, but Prince Viserys...

"Has Mother written lately, brother?" he asked mildly, swirling his wine with a smile. "Because she and I are in  _constant_ correspondance, of course - has  _Aerion_ written to you recently? I know that he writes regularly to both Aegon and Rhaenys, and he sends many gifts to my boys, as well as the plums that grow so sweet at Summerhall for my lady. Have you heard of his leading the force that removed the bandits from the woods near the palace? I was  _most_ proud to hear of his endeavours."

Jon managed to steer the King away with a _suddenly_ remembered need to show him something in the council chamber, inventing wildly as he practically dragged Rhaegar away from his brother, who laughed wildly, as was his way, and called for Princess Daenerys to take the newly empty seat by his side.

Rhaegar disappeared into his tower before they could even reach the council chamber, which meant Jon was free to return to the dining hall, to control the damage wrought by the near-tantrum the King had thrown.

And he found his wife frozen in something that seemed to be horror, with mashed potatoes and rich cream sauce dripping from her hair, with Prince Daeron and Prince Dagon standing on their chairs, hands full of food.

Joanna was standing to Prince Dagon's right, with a fist full of creamed fish, the same cream fish as Prince Viserys was combing out of his hair while laughing hysterically.

 

* * *

 

Jon was almost relieved, five days later, to see the twin dragon banners, red on black and black on red, coming up the roseroad.


	3. The Princess-in-Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa was the eldest, in all but birth, and she felt it in the responsibility of soothing her siblings aches and fighting away her mother and father's melancholy, whether by sitting with Mother while she spoke of Riverrun or kneeling at Father's side while he prayed in the godswood - Sansa was a good girl, and Winterfell was all she knew.
> 
> She did not know if she wished to go south at all, much less all the way to Dorne.

Sansa was the eldest, in all but birth, and she felt it in the responsibility of soothing her siblings aches and fighting away her mother and father's melancholy, whether by sitting with Mother while she spoke of Riverrun or kneeling at Father's side while he prayed in the godswood - Sansa was a good girl, and Winterfell was all she knew.

She did not know if she wished to go south at all, much less all the way to Dorne.

She had been betrothed to Prince Quentyn of House Martell almost from birth, from the moment the King had heard that she had been born female, not male, so he might tie House Stark tighter, bind them closer, and Sansa did not think she even resented that, much. She wished a little that she might have some romantic adventure, a dashing knight on a white horse to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset with her (not even a dashing knight, she might have settled for Smalljon Umber, who was so sweet and guileless and  _tall_ ), of course, but so did every young woman, surely!

Prince Quentyn had only written her a handful of letters all through their lengthy betrothal - fourteen years, give or take, and hardly a dozen letters over that whole time, and short ones at that. She felt as if she were being punished for something, in a small way, but her mother had gone through worse than a quiet (or lazy?) husband, and so Sansa could manage quite well enough. Prince Quentyn was to be her husband, the King had dictated that it was to be so, and so it  _would_ be so. Even had Sansa wanted to object, she could not - there was naught for it but to accept her fate with all the grace she could muster.

She could not deny that she was jealous of Arya, though - Arya, who was betrothed to handsome Armond Connington who not only wrote regularly, but sent her gifts for her namedays and had even  _visited_ Arya once, staying at Winterfell for a whole  _month_ , with his mother, Lady Cersei, and his sister, Lady Cerenna, who was Sansa's age and betrothed to Prince Aegon. Sansa did not even know what Prince Quentyn looked like, much less how he spoke or dressed or laughed or danced like. She sometimes wondered why it was she who had been given to the Dornish as a means of forging peace between their ruling Houses and Arya gifted with such a wonderful husband-to-be, but then she felt ungracious and so she forced herself on to other considerations.

 

* * *

 

According to what Sansa knew of Dorne from her lessons, women took a more active role in ruling than they did in the rest of the realm - her betrothed's sister was their father's heir, after all, and his grandmother had ruled Dorne before Prince Doran - and so Sansa had taken to paying attention to what it was Mother and Father did to administer Winterfell and the North.

She found figures next to impossible - which amused Arya, because they were one area where she particularly excelled - but she could manage a household very capably, and she liked dealing with the problems the people brought to Father. She liked feeling needed, feeling as though she were useful, and she rarely felt quite as useful as when she sat in the great hall with Father and Bran and mediated for their people.

She hoped Prince Quentyn would appreciate her efforts. She hoped he did not hate her for being Aunt Lyanna's niece.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Sansa remembered that she had an elder brother. Sometimes she did not.

She had never met Robb - he had been born during Aunt Lyanna's war, and had lived his whole life under the King's control in the capital. He was three years her senior, and Mother had said that when he was a babe, he had looked just like Sansa's Uncle Edmure, so Sansa supposed that he must look like herself and Bran and Rickon.

He wrote them letters, and they all wrote letters to him in return, and Sansa envied and pitied him in equal parts. He lived at  _court,_ and knew so many people that she had always wished to know, but he also knew the King better than any person could possibly want to. He always wrote nice things about  _his_ betrothed, the King's sister, Daenerys, but Sansa felt as though they were forced courtesies, not the sincere affection such as she saw when Bran spoke of Lyanna Mormont, who he hoped might someday be his wife. She wondered if Robb were happy, or if it were possible to be so while living as a hostage to your family's good behaviour.

Sansa thought she would have liked to know Robb - she was close to Arya and to Bran, of course, but they were closer to one another, and Rickon was too little. She thought that had they grown up together, she and Robb might have been as close as Arya and Bran. She would have liked to have someone to whisper secrets to at dinner, the way Arya had Bran.

She was jealous of so many things that were Arya's, and hated herself for it.

 

* * *

 

Robb's letters were always greeted with a huge degree of excitement - they were delivered by messenger from the capital, and usually came with gifts, sweets and treats and small tokens based on whatever they each had said in their last letters. Sansa wondered if Robb was lonely, because he never seemed to write much about any friends he might have had in the city. Sometimes he wrote of their cousin Aerion, but since he was usually at Summerhall, it seemed to Sansa as though her brother spent much of his time alone, and that saddened her.

She wished that the King would allow Robb to come home. Things might have been better, had Robb been at home.

Sansa had given a great deal of thought to what might have been, had Father and Lord Robert and Lord Arryn and Grandfather won Aunt Lyanna's war - she had once heard someone say that they would have rathered Robert Baratheon on the throne to Rhaegar Targaryen, and she wondered if she might have been the one to wed a prince and one day become queen instead of Cerenna Connington, if Robb would have grown up at Winterfell with them, if she would have had as much cause to be jealous of Arya.

If Mother and Father might have been happier. Sansa knew that they  _were_ happy, or at least contented, but having Robb quite literally torn from her arms had left Mother with a terrible sadness in her heart that Sansa did not think would ever be lifted, not even when Robb returned home after wedding the Princess Daenerys.

At least, he was  _supposed_ to return after he wed her, but everyone spoke in whispers of the King's madness, and Sansa wondered if he would hold to his word.

 

* * *

 

It hurt Sansa to know that so much of the realm thought her family to be so dishonourable, and that made her hate the King.

She knew, although Mother and Father had tried to shield her from the worst details, that the King, when just a Prince, had stolen Aunt Lyanna away and raped her in order to make Aerion. She knew that the King had forced her away to Casterly Rock to wed the worst man in the realm (although Sansa had met Ser Jaime, and she did not think him as bad as people often said when they called him Kingslayer, and besides, the old King had been insane, had he not?) so that he could hide away both of his greatest shames in one swoop. She knew that Lord Connington and Queen Elia had conspired to allow Aerion to squire for Ser Jaime, so he might know his mother and his other half-siblings, and she knew that the King rarely had anything to do with his youngest son.

She did not understand how one man could do so much ill and somehow, to many, escape any blame or censure. 

Arya said it was because he was the King, and a Targaryen, and people feared him, but Sansa thought that mayhaps it was more than fear - it was a queer sort of lust, the same one that drove Barbrey Dustin to smile for Mother and Father and curse them behind their backs (Sansa had heard her, more than once). A lust for power or influence, something easily attainable now, as far as Sansa could discern, if you agreed with the King and at least pretended to agree with his motivations.

She was not looking forward to going south.

 

* * *

 

The Queen had invited Sansa to her court at Summerhall several times - in just a few short years, she would be Sansa's aunt by marriage, after all - but Mother and Father had always refused to let her go. Sansa had always understood their reasoning, but now, when the letter arrived with Robb's, she suddenly wished to go. 

She had never heard an ill word of the Queen, and she sounded a fascinating woman from Robb's letters - she had taken her husband's bastard under her wing, and mothered him as no woman should have had to their husband's baseborn child. Aerion sometimes wrote, too, for Sansa had visited Casterly Rock with Father and Arya while Aerion had been there and met him and liked him well enough, and he liked Queen Elia very much, and spoke of her with a great deal of affection.

"Might I go, Mother?" she asked timidly. "I have learned a great deal here, but spending time with the Queen might help me to better understand the Dornish way of behaving, and I do so wish to be a good wife to Prince Quentyn when the time comes."

Mother took Sansa's face in her hands, sighed heavily, and nodded.

"I will speak to your father, sweetling," she said, "but I make no promises."

Sansa went with Mother to the dressmakers the following morning, to see about new gowns and shifts and all manner of things for her journey south, and she wrote the letter of acceptance and thanks to the Queen in her own hand. 

 

* * *

 

Queen Elia was a small woman, closer to Arya's height than Sansa's own, but very beautiful in a way Sansa had never known before - her eyes were huge in her thin face, wide and dark and knowing, and she welcomed Sansa in a warm, quiet voice, pressing her hands and smiling as though sharing a secret.

Her court was beautiful - the palace of Summerhall was exquisite, bright and airy, high ceilings and windows panelled in stained glass all about - and Sansa thoroughly enjoyed the three weeks she spent there before the King summoned the Queen, the Queen Dowager, and Aerion to court in King's Landing.

Sansa did not know how to react when the Queen informed her that she would be part of her entourage in the capital.


End file.
